


Dawning

by skyholdherbalist



Series: As the moth sees light [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Early Mornings, F/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 09:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: The morning after their first night, Cullen studies Ellana.After the events of chapter ten ofWind and flame.





	Dawning

Cullen woke before dawn, before her.  His sleep had been blessedly calm, but his body followed its own schedule.  It was not used to calm hours in bed.  So he awoke in the paling dark, heavy lidded and very warm.  He realized he was not alone, and remembered why.  

His experiences with women had been few.  He had never once awakened next to a woman, or slept with her in his arms.  Always quick, furtive encounters, never languid or loving.  Last night had been different.  Entirely different.  

And Ellana was still here, lying beside him on her stomach, her soft face turned toward him, cheek pressed into the bed, ignoring the pillow.  Her back rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breath.  One ear parted the curtain of her wavy hair.  He had a mad urge to trace the coral whorls of her ear, map a line up to the point that made hers so unlike his.  

As his fingertip slid along the curved edge, her face and ear twitched.  He stifled a laugh and continued, stroking up to the point.  Another twitch, and a soft grunt.  "If you stop doing that, I’ll tell you a secret,“ her drowsy voice mumbled.  

He pulled his hand away and lay his head on a pillow, looking into her blinking eyes.  

"The secret is… my ears are very ticklish.”  She smiled.  "Don’t use it against me.“  

Cullen gently kneaded her shoulder.  "You’re safe with me.”  

Ellana closed her eyes, her smile growing wider.  "I almost believe you.“  She turned onto her side to face him, reached out to comb through the loose curls at his forehead.  He nuzzled his head into her touch.  "It’s nice to see you like this,” she said.

“Like what?” he whispered.

She stroked his cheek, and he loved the soft grazing of her short nails on his skin.  "Happy,“ she said.  "Well-rested.  Gentle.  Naked,” she said with a grin.

He laughed, and felt her legs brush against his—not skin against skin, but the worn wool of leggings that felt very much like his own.  He peeked under the blanket.  "What’s this?  Did you put on my underclothes?“  He plucked at the linen shirt she was wearing, the one he must have thrown off in a frenzy the night before.  He could hardly remember.    

"Got cold.  No fire up here.”  She wedged herself in closer to him.  "May have to requisition something.“  

"No, please.  I like my room the way it is.”  Her icy feet wrapped around his.  He wanted to hold her, to warm her and feel the weight of her, as close as possible.  But to see her this close, in the softly dawning light, to observe and memorize every part of her face, was almost better.  The end of her  _vallaslin_  nearly touched the dimple in her chin.  A thin scar split one of her eyebrows.  On her left cheek, a small constellation of dark freckles.

“What about next time?”  She performed an exaggerated shiver.  "I’ll freeze.”

 _Next time_.  He remembered when an innocent  _next time_  from her held more promise, consumed more of his thoughts, than he cared to admit.  Now it was an easy declaration, a shared future.  His chest ached.  Though his heart felt full, there was still so much he couldn’t say.  It was easier to tease.

“Next time,” he said, writing a pattern on her collarbone with one finger, “we can go to your room.  Finally give your bed some use.”  

She smiled, bashful and rosy.  "Floor not good enough for you?“  She would always tease him back, he knew.  

Then her face twisted.  She groaned and brought up her left hand, squeezing it hard with her right.  The palm glowed its strange green.  Tiny sparks arced from it, then softly died, like a torch in rain.  He had never been this close to the active anchor.  Cold fear gripped him, but he shook it off and held her shoulder.  "Are you all right?  Should I get someone?”

She shook her head, eyes shut tight.  "It will pass,“ she whispered.  As she spoke, the glow faded, and the pain seemed to leave her.  He held her still as her breathing slowed, caressing her arm, studying her face as she relaxed.  

"Does this happen often?” he asked softly.  

She licked her lips, eyes still closed.  "Every once in a while.  Can’t say I’m getting used to it.“  Her voice was hoarse.  She loosened the grip on the anchor hand and sighed, blinking her eyes open.  "I’m not afraid of magic,” she said, shaking her wrist, “just don’t care for it coming out of me.”  

She was not a mage.  To suddenly be struck with such a power, to have no control over it… Guilt coiled inside him, heavy and dark.  This was how the mages must have felt.  How the children felt.  Magic, new and painful, spilled from her.  In other circumstances, in another life, such a mark might have put her in sight of the Templars.  Would he have hauled her in, and locked her away, like so many others?  His choices—his mistakes—rarely left his mind now, without the fog of lyrium to hide them.  They were with him, every hour.

Every hour a reminder of what he had been.  And every hour a chance to become something better.  So he spent those hours awake, working.  Atoning.

He took her left hand in both of his, kneading the palm, massaging the joints and tips of her fingers.  He wanted to take all her pain away.  And he knew he could not.  They were all helpless before the mark.  It was why she was here.  If not for this, he may never have known her.  He could not allow himself to be grateful for that, because of the pain.  

If only it were just her hand, and not a thousand blows every day, not the constant strife and loss.  He knew what it was to hurt—to ache with fear, to be tortured, to commit those crimes against another and live with them day after bloody day.  He wanted none of that for her.

What did the Maker intend for them?  Ellana had her path, he had his, and their paths had met.  Even if the Maker had not willed it, he would protect her now, no matter the cost.    

He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it softly, reverently, then held her hand flat against his chest, stroking her skin.  


End file.
